


You can’t Google hope.

by MissyJack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyJack/pseuds/MissyJack





	You can’t Google hope.

This ficlet is a bleak bit of introspection from Sam’s POV. Because I’m feeling bleak and introspective.  

**Title:** You can’t Google hope.   


unbetaed, 960 words.   


Sam slapped the laptop shut and pushed it away. After ten months of fruitlessly searching for ways to break Dean’s deal, trawling through the megabytes of useless crap that passed for information just made him angry. He palmed his cell phone, and considered ringing Bobby, although he hardly thought if Bobby had found something he wouldn’t have already called. What he really wanted from Bobby was reassurance that this would be all right. He could almost believe the lie if it came from someone else.

Dean didn’t try and stop Sam looking for answers anymore. Probably, Sam thought, because he doubted that after all this time that he was in any danger of finding anything, but also because they'd stopped arguing. Every disagreement was ended before it had begun, as one or the other of them would back down, not wanting to waste what words they had left between them.

They still kept hunting, there seemed no reason not to. Dean had stopped risking his life carelessly, had become almost cautious, while Sam resented every person they saved and he killed with less regret, his old beliefs about what was evil, and who deserved to live, seeming naïve to him now. 

He picked up the Colt from where it lay next to the laptop. The only plan he had to save Dean involved shooting the hellhounds when they came for him, which was fine if there were only six of them. He ran a finger over the engraving on the barrel - _non timebo mala_ , I will fear no evil - and wondered what strength of faith would make a man believe that.

From his pocket, Sam fished a string of small dark wooden beads with a simple crucifix attached to it and rolled the rosary between his fingers. He still prayed, and it was the one thing he and Dean had argued about, when Dean had returned to their motel room one day to find Sam kneeling by his bed.

“You must be really desperate.” Dean had let out a mocking laugh. ”You think praying’s going help us beat what we’re up against?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.” Sam had looked down as he moved the beads between his fingers. They were small in his hands but they were solid, and he hung onto them tightly.

“Don’t you think I prayed when you died?“ Sam had looked up sharply; Dean had never spoken about what he’d done on that night..

“I sat there staring at you, and I prayed. I prayed so hard Sam. I said every prayer I knew in Latin and Greek and in English.” Dean’s voice was a whisper. “And then I just begged.”

“Thank you.” The words had never sounded more inadequate to Sam.

“Why? What fucking good did it do? No one answered.” Dean had stood with his back to Sam, staring out the window. “But demons? All it took was some cat bones at a crossroads and in five minutes I had a deal. Hell? Lot better customer service than Heaven.”

Sam still had no answer to Dean’s charge. These days his own faith was as thin as a communion wafer. The ritual, the repetition of words, was drained of meaning for him, but he felt compelled to continue, as if the moment he stopped might be the moment too soon, like not buying a lottery ticket the week your numbers come up. 

Sam checked his watch; Dean had been gone for over two hours. He had been spending more time alone in the last few weeks, going on long walks or drives. Sam didn’t know where he went or what he did, and although he’d return as nonchalantly as if he’d just popped out for a burger, each time it was if he had faded a bit, like a photo run through a copier too many times.

They’d go out to bars but Dean ignored the girls who flashed their availability and cleavage at him, offering them an apologetic smile, as he’d join Sam at a corner table. He told him stories about when they were young, before Sam could remember, of their Mom and the fire, and leaving Kansas. They reminisced about getting drunk on Bobby’s beer, joy-riding in the Impala, and how family came to mean such different things to both of them. 

For the first time, Dean talked about the years when Sam was at Stanford, about hunts, and falling in love, and their dad. All the things Sam had wanted to hear for years, and yet he couldn’t enjoy any of it because it just felt like Dean was downloading his memories, giving them to Sam for safe keeping before he died.

Finally, Sam heard the low rumble of the Impala as it pulled up outside the room. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clamp down on the tide of emotion rising within him. Every time Dean walked through the door, Sam couldn’t help but think that one day soon, it would be for the last time. 

He took a couple of deep breaths, ready to greet Dean with a smile, ready to play his part in the pretense that they were both okay. He knew Dean needed him to be strong, didn’t need to know about the anguish and fear that gnawed away at him like rats under his ribcage. Didn’t need to know that when Sam thought about life without Dean all he saw was darkness. Didn't need to know that Sam didn't plan on finding out if he was wrong.  

He shut down the laptop, stuffed the rosary back in his pocket, carefully wrapped up the Colt, and returned it to his duffle. They offered him no hope. The only thing Sam had left to take comfort in, was that when the time came, Dean wouldn’t die alone. 

  


 


End file.
